


heart & home

by boltlightning



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Young Royai, as well as post-promised day royai, headcanon hell, this is so cheesy but i couldn't stop myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9431570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: This is beyond comfort; this is home.(or: Riza visits Roy's childhood home, and finds a new one for herself.)





	1. Chapter 1

Just from the doors of the station, it is clear that Central is a city that is constantly in motion. Citizens rush down sidewalks and across the paved roads, clutching their coats shut as they brace themselves against the brisk winter air. Horse-drawn carriages wait alongside personal automobiles. Throngs of stores and services line the streets, their doors propped open just a sliver to entice customers to step in for the warmth and wares.

Riza tilts the wide brim of her hat up to fully digest her first sight of the Amestrian capitol. On this one street, she muses, there must be more hustle and bustle than Riza’s small village out east had seen since its founding.

Roy brushes up against her shoulder as he comes to her side, their shared carpetbag in one hand. With his opposite arm, he offers an elbow, smiling. “Like what you see?”

She nods, mute, and loops her arm through his. His soft laugh comes with a cloud of steam. “Well, there’s even more to take in. Let’s move, it looks like it’s going to snow.”

They walk hurriedly to stay warm. Roy had not hailed a cab on purpose, he tells her – in his experience, Central City is far more scenic while on your own two feet. He leads her through the market district, past dress stores and automail workshops and modest apothecaries. They take a shortcut through a residential district, where there is a mixture of tall apartment buildings and grand, gated homes. He has apparently taken her on a highlight tour of his childhood, and narrates relevant anecdotes as they pass certain stops, each story tinged with nostalgic affection.

Roy doesn’t consult a map, nor does he hesitate when they come to complex intersections, and Riza trusts him to know where he is going. They eventually come to a halt at a two-story building down an alley off a narrow merchant street. The lights are lit within, but the dark red curtains are drawn over the windows. Aside from a sun-bleached, illegible easel sitting just to the left of the front door, the bar has no identifying features. Still, Roy strides forward first to grasp the doorknob. “Riza,” he says, “welcome to the Foxhole.”

Within, the bar is dim, but wondrously warm. Though there were electric lights on the porch, the interior is entirely lit by oil lamps, which cling to the wall in simple iron sconces. The muted gold walls seem to glow. Riza can just make out the dark wooden furniture and a gramophone near the back of the room.

Perhaps unnecessarily, Roy looks to the bartender and waves as they approach. “Hello, Madame. I’m home.”

“It’s about time,” the woman snarks, and sets down the dusting rag in her hand.

When he was an apprentice, Roy had spoken of Madame Christmas in reverent and fearful, yet loving connotation. Just by Riza’s first glance at her, it makes sense all at once. Draped around her shoulders is a coat of rich velvet and lined with white fur. Her dark hair is pulled back, revealing a severe hairline and calling attention to the sharp curve of her eyes. Her voice is low, gravelly; a cigarette sticks out of one side of her mouth, unlit. She purposefully appears intimidating, and it works. The cigarette stands upright between her lips as she offers her son a smirk. “And this must be the illustrious Riza Hawkeye, yes?”

Riza abruptly straightens up. “Y-yes, ma’am,” she stammers, and offers her hand. Madame Christmas’ eyes drift down to it, then back to Riza’s eyes in an almost dismissive fashion, but she shakes it nonetheless. “It’s a pleasure, Madame Christmas.”

“Oh no, it’s all mine, Miss Hawkeye,” she says, waving her hand. “After having Roy mention you in every letter home, I am sincerely glad to put a face to the name.”

“ _Ma_ ,” Roy groans, exasperated, but he’s got a devious half-smile on his face.

She gives him a sharp look. “You _know_ I hate it when you call me that, Roy.” There’s a long pause that borders on unnecessary, and it’s heavy and uncomfortable until she chuckles. Her laugh surprises Riza – Madame Christmas doesn’t look much like a smiler, let alone a laugher. “But it’s good to have you back, boy. Even if you are back for business.”

Their visit to Central is technically a business trip – Roy, on academic leave from the military, is required to meet with an overseeing general for an inspection of his progress. With the conflict in Ishval growing more intense and demanding, the budding alchemist was surprised he was being called in at all, as it was a waste of precious time for the much-needed generals. It at least gives him an excuse to get off the stuffy Hawkeye estate and away from flame alchemy for a day or two. They had decided to make a day of it, and the madame had been more than willing to help make accommodations.

She swings open the door to allow them behind the bar. “Come on, you two. Head upstairs.”

Roy leads the way, after exchanging an awkward, reassuring smile with Riza. She follows, but Madame Christmas touches her arm as she passes. “I don’t know what your relationship with your father was like,” she murmurs, quiet enough to not alert Roy, “but I’m sorry for your loss regardless. Know that you always have a home here.”

Madame Christmas pats her arm hearteningly and blinks, then immediately resumes her aloof, gruff expression as she turns back to the bar. Riza squeaks back a quiet, “Thank you,” but if the madame hears, she doesn’t know. She realizes that besides Roy, Chris has been the only other person to offer condolences to her.

Roy leads her past a green curtain behind the bar, and they skirt through a small kitchen and squeeze into a wooden hallway. It opens into a cozy sitting room. The walls are almost completely bookshelves, which are stuffed to the bursting. Riza wants to laugh – the origin of Roy’s notorious bookish tendencies have finally been revealed – and has a quip on the tip of her tongue, but they move too quickly. He reaches back and takes her hand to escort her up a harrowingly slim, steep stairwell.

The second floor is a straight hallway, staggered with doors. It reminds Riza of a motel she and her father had stayed in during a trip to East City, it is so narrow. It would share the sterility of such a motel were it not for the hodgepodge of drawings and miscellaneous photo frames that decorate the walls and doors, a clear sign that these lodgings are inhabited.

“Home sweet home,” Roy sighs. “Wanna guess which room is mine?”

She doesn’t get a chance to answer; a girl pokes her head out of a door. “Roy!” she calls. “Hey, Carla, Roy’s home!”

Roy offers the girl a sheepish smile, but accepts her running hug regardless. “It’s been a while, Vanessa. I thought you were in Xing for the next few months?”

“Nah, came back early,” she huffs. She leaves her arms around his neck as she chews the inside of her cheek, rolling her words around in her head. “Too cold. Ah – you have a guest. Where are my manners? I’m Vanessa, Roy’s sister – well, in a manner of speaking.” She takes a step back from Roy and offers Riza a beaming smile.

“I’m Riza. It’s-“

Vanessa claps her hands over her mouth in surprise. “Oh, you’re Riza! Roy talks about you all the time!”

Riza blushes and shrugs, sheepish. “Yeah, I guess that’s me,” she says, nervous. Roy has ducked his head and is pointedly looking in the other direction as he rubs his neck. An embarrassed Roy Mustang is quite the rare sight, in Riza’s book, and she can’t help but grin. Other girls are starting to appear in the hallway, in various states of undress. One is toweling off her hair as she emerges from a room in a bathrobe; another simply sticks her head out of her door, brow raised.

“Now, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Vanessa continues. “Is Riza short for something? Elizabeth? Liesel? Or maybe-“

“Girls,” a voice from behind warns. Riza jumps – she hadn’t heard Madame Christmas coming up the stairs. “Get ready for tonight – Roy Boy’s been travelling. I’m sure they’re both tired.”

Vanessa hems and haws, but eventually the girls slink back into the rooms with promises to catch up with Roy later. Madame Christmas saunters past them, as well. “C’mon, Riza,” Roy murmurs, still flushed pink. “My room’s the first one here.”

A worn, homemade sign on the door indeed claims the room for Roy’s own in childish (and endearing) handwriting. Unsurprisingly, Roy’s childhood bedroom bears some similarities to the room he had kept while studying with Berthold Hawkeye: there is sparse furnishing, and the only decorations seem to be the books and binders stacked in haphazard towers on the floor. A thin layer of dust coats nearly everything in the room, aside from the bedspread and a threadbare sofa pushed against the far wall.

“Make yourself at home,” Roy says, the words half a yawn. “I’m _beat_. Sitting on a train is always exhausting, somehow.” He drops the carpet bag, pulls off his coat and extra sweater, and flops down onto the sofa, but Riza takes her time looking around the room. She recognizes some of the belongings Roy had left behind when he attended the academy – his brass pocket watch, a worn set of novels in the bookshelf, a familiar sweater hung on the coatrack in the corner.

There’s a single picture frame in the room, and it sits atop the bookshelf. Riza is drawn to it, cradling the fragile frame in her hands to get a closer look. It is a portrait of a family of three, yellowed and fading around the edges. Unlike the few stoic photographs Riza had seen in textbooks and newspapers, these three are grinning, if not outright laughing. The child in the photo, a toddler held precariously on his mother’s knee, must be Roy – the adults in the photo resemble him too closely to be anyone else. His mother, elegant and slender in Xingese clothing, has his eyes, his round face, his fine black hair. His father, standing tall in a crisp suit and old-fashioned spectacles, has his smile, his nose, his build. She wipes the dust off the glass with a sad smile and a sudden feeling in her gut that she is intruding on something very, very private.

With care, she sets the frame down where she found it, and is just shedding her coat when Roy turns his head and looks to her with a bleary expression. “You’re going to hate me for this,” he tells her, “but I promised Aunt Chris I’d run the kitchen tonight.”

“You want to cook on your break?”

“Well,” he starts to say, but stops. He doesn’t come up with an excuse, even as he dwells on it. She snorts in laughter at his befuddled expression.

“I don’t mind lending a hand,” Riza tells him. She rolls the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows. “Who’s gonna be your prep cook if I don’t?”

“You’re a blessing from Heaven itself, Riza Hawkeye,” he sighs. She turns towards the door so he can’t see her blush. Like a cat, he pulls himself from the sofa and stretches. “Let’s get cooking.”

It seems the night is getting started when they get to the kitchen. Madame Christmas’ girls, Roy’s sisters, float in and out of the bar, passing through in a hasty haze of perfume and sparkling dresses. Roy moves deftly through the kitchen; he had spent most of his life here, after all, and the muscle memory had held fast. Quickly, he has a broth on the backburner and has turned his attention to whisking something in a saucepan.

“Oh, good, you’ve got a soup going.” Madame Christmas enters, a lit cigar between her fingers. “Coax it into a stew, huh Roy? It’s cold tonight – people’ll want something warm.”

She claps Roy on the shoulder and takes a spare spoon to test the broth. As they stand side by side, their similarities become all the more apparent. Roy may not be her son by blood, but he has inherited much of his personality from Chris. The easy grace, the overwhelming confidence, the ability to read social situations instantaneously, the quiet but emphatic empathy: she mulls over these shared traits in both Mustangs as she silently observes from the opposite side of the room. Roy’s parents may be gone, but he is not without family.

Madame Christmas deems his broth acceptable (“Though it could use a pinch more pepper,” she grumbles, brow pinched, as she reaches for the pepper mill herself) and exits to the bar. Someone has put a record on the gramophone; it slowly spins a mellow jazz tune to life. Riza hoists herself onto the counter next to Roy. “How can I help you, Mr. Chef?”

He smiles and hands her a chipped mug. “Drink this,” he orders playfully, pointing his dripping whisk at her. “All of it.”

It’s hot cocoa, and it’s thick and rich. Roy had been careful not to make it too sweet, as she had never been fond of anything too sugary. It’s a small gesture, but appreciated nonetheless.

As he cooks, he hums along to the jazz tunes as they get brassier and more upbeat. He taps his foot and shuffles along as he moves through the kitchen, a spring in his step. He asks for her opinion as he adds more ingredients to the broth (which is developing into a hardy stew, per the madame’s instructions), but he doesn’t ask her to do any tasks for him. She is content to sit on the counter by his side and watch.

He is so carefree in this moment, so blissfully focused on his cooking and the swing of the music. Music clearly means a great deal to Roy – he often tunes the wireless back on the estate to the orchestral scores they’d broadcast between shows while he studies, or to the jazz combos featured every night while he does the evening chores. When he sings along for a few phrases, his voice is smooth, rich, and confident. Riza briefly wonders if he would have been a musician in another life. He would enjoy it, she sighs to herself. Alchemy suits him fine, but music has passion to match Roy’s own, and theory, complexity, and technicality to challenge his wits.

It’s a less secure profession than a military alchemist would occupy, but it is a hell of a lot safer. She knows he’s meant to be a soldier and she could never change his mind, but she can dream.

Riza is broken from her reverie when he offers her his hand.

“Care to dance?”

She blinks. “Roy, you of all people should know I’m no good on my feet.”

“C’mon, it’s just the two of us. The girls are about their business – no one will see.”

Riza hesitates, but his smile is sweet and the music is swinging. She sighs, sets her mug down, and takes his hand.

He leads, promising all she needs to do is stay light. In their socked feet, they glide effortless across the stone floor of the kitchen, twirling and swaying and jiving. If she could, Riza thinks, she would stay in this moment forever – dancing with Roy, far from the impending threat of war and tyranny, blissfully alone and so utterly in sync.

Their dancing is abruptly interrupted when the stew threatens to boil over. Roy scrambles to take it off the heat, slipping in his socks as he skids across the room. When the meal is saved, he slicks his hair back from his forehead and lets out a sigh of relief. He smiles sheepishly at Riza, who is still breathless with laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

The streets of Central are as familiar to her now, a maze through which she can easily pick her way. Intimate knowledge of the back alleys and shortcuts is useful for both delicate stealth missions and boisterous pursuits of fugitives, but this snowy evening they stick to the main roads where the streetlights are ample.

The sun sets early, and they are both wary of the dark.

It sounds silly when Roy mentions it, experimentally putting his arm around her shoulders. They are veterans of war and the dark fills them both with fear. It is justifiable in context — she had spent months living in fear that the shadows were watching, under the control of the monster named Pride, and Roy had had his eyesight stolen from him by the Gate of Truth, through no fault of his own. He never again wants to return to that unknown; she never again wants to be held hostage in plain sight. 

Together, they brave the evening.

“Sir,” she grumbles, though she doesn’t remove his arm, “won’t it be _suspicious_ if we sneak off in the night together?”

“Nonsense, Lieutenant,” Colonel Mustang chirps. “We’re simply welcoming a mutual friend back to the country. It’s a platonic outing with friends.”

She hums lightly in response.

“Come on, Hawkeye. We’re on medical leave, and we’ve just been cleared for alcohol consumption. It’ll be a fun night off before we transfer.” 

He smiles crookedly, and she sighs begrudgingly. Their normal cadence has resumed. She snakes her arm around his back, and can’t help but smile when he pulls her tight against him.

The war is over, and Grumman has ascended to the office of the Führer. Abruptly, the government is filled with holes and vacancies that had steadily been filled for decades, and reorganization is in order. Many of the titles had been shared by officers unnecessarily; other positions were entirely superfluous. For the first time in living history, the military are under peacetime orders, calling ceasefires with Aerugo and Drachma in order to draw up treaties.

Promotions are in order, though they hadn’t been distributed yet. Priority is given to vacancies that were urgent, including Grumman’s commanding office at Eastern Command. It is no surprise to anyone when Roy Mustang is chosen to return to East City in Grumman’s place, and it is just as expected that he takes what is left of his team with him. 

Breda and Fuery had already returned to the East to check on the situation and put out premature fires. Havoc was to remain in retirement (by choice, he had insisted). Falman had been boosted to the investigations office in Central, specializing in cases in the Northern and Eastern sectors, which require him to be all over the map even now. Before Mustang and Hawkeye can leave for East City, there is much recovery that needs to happen. Hawkeye is regaining her footing after having her throat cut. She notes, with chagrin, that she has yet another excuse to wear high-collared shirts; the scar is ghastly, another addition to her collection. The battle had left Mustang blind and with severe hand wounds; his hands thankfully retained full utility, but his eyesight required alchemic reparations. And while he had been treated with a Philosopher’s Stone, to which there is no parallel in terms of power, recovering his sight required rehabilitation he had only recently cleared.

The pair is not functioning at full capacity, neither physically nor emotionally, but together they are stronger. 

Roy eventually pauses in front of what was once a hotel. Rather than trying the front door, he squeezes through an alley at the side, holding Riza’s hand as he leads her through. He knocks on the back door in an irregular rhythm. It is clearly using code, though it is no code Riza recognizes, and soon the door opens.

Madame Christmas smiles her dry smile. “I was wondering when you two would show up.”

She stands aside to allow them entry, but once the door is closed behind them, Madame Christmas envelops both of them in a hug. It is brief, but its impact is not unnoticed; Roy, for once, has no clever quip prepared, and can only blink in shock.

“I take it you enjoyed Xing, Aunt Chris?” he manages to squeak out, his smile unsure. The Mustangs, as long as Riza had known them, were never huge on overt displays of affection; this one hug has both Riza and Roy stunned. Madame Christmas gives his cheek a loving, if stiff, pat. 

“Just don’t tell the girls,” she rumbles, gesturing for them to follow her.

The main room of the new bar homes furniture yet to be assembled, occasionally hidden beneath dusty white sheets. Leaned against the flaking, painted walls are unopened cans of paint and assorted brushes and trays. The original Foxhole bar had been destroyed before the Promised Day, so a new property was necessary; the refurbishing of this building is still early underway. Still, Madame Christmas has an atmosphere to maintain – oil lamps hang haphazardly from nails on the wall above the few assembled tables, and flickering tea lights line the edge of the bar. Riza recognizes some of Roy’s sisters milling around, but there are unfamiliar faces mixed in as well.

“Some of the girls brought their own plus-ones,” Chris explains, as they scooch onto stools at the end of the bar. She pours them each a half-glass of sweet wine, perhaps noting how both of them were moving more carefully than usual. “Feel free to mingle.”

Madame Christmas has placed them in the seats with the best view of the room. Immediately, Riza is noting potential hiding places, suspicious shadows, easy exits. Years of service as Roy’s adjutant (and months of hiding from the shadows) have trained her instincts to be alert at all times, and the wine does little to still her nerves. She can feel Roy’s eyes on her, and without turning, she mumbles, “What?”

He’s smiling, and hiding it poorly. He tugs at his scarf where it rests under the lapels of his coat. “Oh, nothing.” She sees his eyes flitting about the room and finds comfort in the fact that he, too, is not the only one in military mode tonight. 

Chris keeps the wine flowing, and though neither of them drink much, Riza feels herself loosening up. Roy names some of the unfamiliar people from his seat at the bar: Vanessa’s long-term beau, Claudia’s severe-looking older sister, Hazel’s elderly mother. Roy had told her long ago that Madame Christmas was in the habit of taking in girls without homes even before she adopted him. Many were orphans or otherwise down on their luck, and of varying ages. Some had been raised with Roy and never left, like Vanessa; some had been taken in later in his life, and left after a few years. Even now, Chris is still opening her doors to these women – she ushers two younger sisters up to Roy and Riza, and they blush when Roy smiles at them. (He’s 30 years old and still a charmer, Riza notes.) They timidly introduce themselves as Dahlia and Iris.

“It’s a pleasure,” Roy greets. “I’m Roy, Madame Christmas’ son.”

The girls start, visibly surprised. Quickly, he adds, “Well, I’m _technically_ her nephew.”

“But a son in all but blood,” Chris clarifies. Her voice is warm, and the sisters calm at her tone. “He was raised with the girls, and this is his home, too. He’ll be around here every so often.”

As they scamper away, released from their social obligation, Riza hears snatches of their whispered conversation – words that sound suspiciously like _Mustang?_ and _Ishval_ reach her even at a distance. If Roy hears, he doesn’t seem to react, numb to gossip now. Riza settles in at his side.

The lights create an intimate, cozy setting, and the chatter is pleasant after a few weeks in the sterility of the hospital. The night is winding down, and slowly the small party begins to disperse, headed to their lodgings for the night. Roy leans against the bar, his eyes closed, and hums a small melody. 

“All this night needs is a little music,” he sighs. “Then it’d be perfect.”

Without thinking, she responds, “I used to think you’d make a good musician, actually.” 

He cracks an eye and looks at her sideways, his smirk smug. “Really now?”

“Some would even say you have the ego to match.” 

“Hawkeye. I’m wounded.” He puts his hand to his chest in mock pain, his eyes drooping; she snorts, smirking, and nudges his shoulder with her own.

“Oh, you know I rarely mean it.”

Madame Christmas approaches them when the bar is empty, stoic as always. Now that Riza has the time to fully take her in, she notes that Chris does show signs of age – it seems the months she spent worrying after her son and country in Xing had worn on her. She looks tired, she looks _her_ age — but still manages her happiest smirk, and gestures for them to follow her. Wordlessly, Roy obeys, and of course Riza follows.

Similar to the original Foxhole bar, this hotel is connected to a residential space. There’s almost no furniture and renovation is clearly necessary, but Chris is starting from scratch. Roy mumbles something to his mother about helping – he _is_ a powerful alchemist, if she had forgotten – but she waves him off. They come to a room near the back of the flat, labeled with a childish, homemade sign that simply says “Roy  & Riza”.

“Ma.” Roy looks to her, eyes wide. He pulls his hand out of his pocket as though to reach for her, but hesitates. “You didn’t have to—“

“You two,” Chris interjects with finality, “will always have a home here.” She looks back and forth between them, her expression soft. “What you’ve gone through, what you’ve done for the girls, what you’ve done for this  _country_ – this is the least we can give in thanks.”

“I–“ Roy starts, but can’t finish. Madame Christmas puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Roy-Boy,” she whispers. She kisses his cheek, pauses a moment, then kisses Riza’s as well. Riza takes Chris’ hands in hers and voices Roy’s thanks softly.

The room is mostly barren as well, but there is a modest queen-sized bed and dusty, empty bookshelves along the walls. Wedged in the corner is the old gramophone, rescued from storage. Atop the bedside table are a few picture frames, which Roy and Riza inspect together. It seems Madame Christmas has resurrected a few more Mustang family pictures – an image of Roy’s parents’ wedding is in a delicate golden frame, next to a shot of the happy couple with their infant son in front of their newly purchased home. It is neatly labeled “ _East City, 1885_.” A newspaper article about Roy’s promotion to colonel lies flat on the shelf, next to the program from his commencement ceremony at the Central Military Academy.

He passes his eyes lightly over them, resting his finger on the article. Snorting, he turns to the rest of the room while Riza dwells on the photographs. Behind her, the old gramophone quietly spins a record to life. It’s a slow, sappy romantic tune, and when Riza turns, Roy is offering his hand to her.

“Care to dance?”

“Roy,” Riza protests, weakly. His smile is sweet, and she hasn’t seen him so happy in so very long. She takes his hand.

At first she feels silly, clumsy, like she always does when she is forced to dance at formal military balls and galas. But Roy’s gaze is steady, his hand reassuring at her waist. It has been some time since they were in such close quarters, and there is a part of her that is still unnerved by his proximity – mentally, she reminds herself that Pride is gone and they are _safe,_ safe here in the light. Gradually, she relaxes. They have never been fans of idle chatter, particularly with each other, and are content to just enjoy the moment. The music is beautiful, a smooth waltz; he leads them in slow, swaying loops.

As the song leads into a quiet interlude, Riza rests her head forehead against the spot where his neck and shoulder meet, just near the sharp curve of his jaw. She closes her eyes. His musk is comfortingly familiar, warm and sweet beneath the fading spice of his aftershave. Years have passed since they were children on that lonely estate in the Eastern country, and yet the smell of him always reminds her of time long gone. He is the boy who boarded with her father; he is the alchemist who won them that awful war; he is her colonel, whom she loved and still loves. He has followed her through time, her one constant through war and trial.

“This is nice,” she mumbles into his collar. He is intoxicatingly warm and indulges her, the hand on her waist gently pulling her flush against him.

Roy is solid, stable, familiar. This is beyond comfort; this is _home_.

“It _is_ nice,” he agrees. They’re barely moving now, shuffling idly to the winding andante tempo; Roy untangles his hand from hers to hold her steady at the small of her back. “You know, Riza…” She can feel the rumbling of his voice in his throat, his breath warm against her ear. “I was afraid the whole time we were apart. Afraid of failing, afraid to lose you, afraid of the monsters I’d lived my whole human life to fight – it was unbearable. Fear follows, regardless of where. It was like I was drowning alone.”

“Roy…” She murmurs it into his skin. It’s all she can think to say, unable to voice how she had felt the same. He’s always been better at finding the words.

“And now that the world has quite literally been lifted from our shoulders, I feel…lighter. But I’m still afraid.” He laughs a bit, quiet and low. “Riza, I – I’ve never been more sure about anything as I am the way I feel about you, but I still keep thinking I’m going to lose you somehow, like this – what we have here, this entire moment – can fall through if I just blink. And it’s silly, but it’s been so long, Riza. I don’t know where to go from here, but I know I don’t want to lose you.”

“And you haven’t lost me all this time,” she says, her voice now a low whisper. The music on the gramophone is spinning to a halt, the recording nearing the end of this track. “Roy, look at where we are. You’ve been through hell, and I’ve followed you there and back.”

He stays silent, considering. She feels him shift to place a kiss on the top of her head.

“We made it, Roy,” she sighs. Her hand on his chest clutches at his shirt.  “I missed you.”

“God, I missed you too, Riza.”

She turns her head to kiss his jaw, then nuzzles back into his neck. They are content to stand there swaying together, whispering back and forth without restraints as they had done when they were children. They hold each other steady, always stronger together.


End file.
